


Angel in the Streets - Demon in the Sheets

by ximeria



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Epiphanies, Humor, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, Sleep, realizing what it is you want at the most inconvenient time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-07-08 03:03:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19862440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ximeria/pseuds/ximeria
Summary: "Come check on me tomorrow?" Crowley shrugs. "Don't wake me up, just… make sure everything's alright?"Aziraphale nods slowly. "I can do that." He's already planning ahead. He won't just check in - he'll … he doesn't know what he'll do as such, but there's a need for something there that he can't quite put into words.





	Angel in the Streets - Demon in the Sheets

**Author's Note:**

> Because someone posted a great long post on Tumblr, listing kisses, and I, ever the fool, showed it to meinposhbastard - I should know better by now, right? Thanks for the beta and the cheerleading, though - because if you're going to be an evil enabler, the least you can do is beta the outcome XD

It starts the first night after they've returned to their own bodies. Crowley is a little high and Aziraphale finds it rather invigorating as well. There's little left of the previous hesitation in their interactions. The knowledge that they have nothing to hide that heaven and hell don't already know about, seems to have taken some of the mania out of Crowley as well.

They've been at each other's sides nearly constantly since the world failed to end. They've only parted just before meeting up again in the park, albeit wearing each other's appearances. Aziraphale feels reluctant to part ways even now. They've been to the Ritz, walked together through the streets of London and have spent the past three hours in Aziraphale's newly re-created bookshop. Drinking wine, as they've done oftentimes before.

It seems Crowley, who's already mentioned twice that he should be getting home, is reluctant to go as well. Aziraphale doesn't want to influence him, but he won't mind if Crowley decides to stay a little longer. Though he can tell that even more relaxed than normally, Crowley looks a little frayed at the edges. Nothing specific, but like he needs a good rest.

Eventually, Crowley drains his glass and stands, stretching to perhaps prolong just a little longer. Aziraphale gets up as well. He's not sure what to do, but there's a feeling in the pit of his stomach that urges him to do something.

If he's true to himself, he wants to hug Crowley, but there is a real risk there, that if he does, he will not want to let go again - ever.

In the end, it's Crowley who steps forward, digging something out of his pocket. He reaches out and takes Aziraphle's hand, turning it and dropping a key into it. It's warded, Aziraphale can tell. "I feel like I'll get home and then sleep for a week," he says, pausing, eyes bright as he looks over the frames of his sunglasses. "Would you… check up on me?"

Aziraphale doesn't quite understand at first.

"I've got wards in place but they'll let you through if you have the key. I just need to know…" Crowley tries to explain.

"That all is safe?" Aziraphale thinks he might understand afterall.

"Yes."

Normally he'd have bit his tongue but the words are out before he can stop himself. It's really quite liberating and makes his unnecessary heart beat a little faster. The whole not having to hide and play the usual charade. "Would you like for me to come now?" he asks. He can hope, can't he?

Crowley huffs a small laugh. "You don't sleep, you'd get bored." He looks… almost soft - and either Aziraphale has never allowed himself to see it before, or he's not the only one feeling the lifting of the weight on his shoulders.

"Come check on me tomorrow?" Crowley shrugs. "Don't wake me up, just… make sure everything's alright?"

Aziraphale nods slowly. "I can do that." He's already planning ahead. He won't just check in - he'll … he doesn't know what he'll do as such, but there's a need for something there that he can't quite put into words.

"Thanks," Crowley says, squeezing Aziraphale's hand around the key. And then he's gone, Aziraphale's undefined regrets forlornly swaying in his wake.

\---

Normally time passes fairly quickly for an immortal being, yet the hours from the evening, through the night and well into the morning pass like time is dragging itself through molasses. Aziraphale wonders if it should bother him more than it does that he is apparently checking the time every hour or so - especially as sometimes only ten minutes have passed.

Finally, the clock ticks past noon. It's the time he's promised himself that he would wait before doing as Crowley had asked. He hails a cab and forces himself to not miracle any of the London traffic out of the way.

It's probably one of the hardest things he's ever done. 

Instead he watches out the window. It's Monday and all of London is acting like the world didn't, almost, end two days ago. Well, to them it didn't, did it? It's just a small selection of characters who witnessed it - if you ignore the thousands of angels and demons that had been waiting for the trumpets of war. They all know it almost happened - and Aziraphale is fairly sure that they all know who'd helped foil it.

Aziraphale has regrets, of course he has. You don't live for 6000 years without racking up some regrets. But he has none when it comes to having helped avert the end of days. He may wish that things had gone differently, that at least his side… his _former_ side, hadn't been so hell bent on having their war.

The cab stops at a red light and Aziraphale frowns. He wonders if Crowley might be right - he probably is - that the next big one will be the fight to save humanity. He wonders how they might help mankind prepare for it. Because there is no doubt that they will have to.

It's not that there are any specific humans that they are attached to - they're not stupid. Human lifespans burn quick and brightly and getting attached… would be asking for heartbreak. Aziraphale loves mankind for mankind itself. For how inventive they are, even if they do court destruction and risk bringing about their own end at some point.

But that's it. It's their choice. The original choice, isn't it? Eat the apple and gain knowledge or do not eat it and stay blissfully ignorant. Aziraphale glances out the window, his eyes seeking the grey skies for a moment. He wonders how much of it She orchestrated - or if by setting it all up, she simply waited for Crowley and he to play their parts.

She can be rather cryptic, can't she?

He touches his ring and turns it a few times in one direction, then the other. It's a, well, not quite a nervous habit. It's a more a habit when he's thinking. He wonders idly if Crowley ever wears jewelry. He's never seen him wearing any, unless you count the sunglasses.

And he's very much not considering gifting a demon jewelry, like some lovesick… Aziraphale feels his stomach drop - he's never understood that human saying. Until now. Well, he's far too old to be considered love _sick_ , isn't he?

The question is, if he'll allow himself to think it - to actually _consider_ it. There's a warm ball of _something_ in the pit of his stomach, but it's not uncomfortable, so he'll leave it be for now.

The cab finally pulls up in front of Crowley's building. Aziraphale pays the driver, even gives a little tip. He's had time to think in the vehicle, such things should be rewarded. He can feel the wards even as he enters the building and when he finally stands in front of the door to Crowley's home, he can feel them resonating. He won't touch them, because that will set them off and wake up Crowley - and that wasn't the agreement - and not what he wants.

Another agreement. Aziraphale takes a deep breath and touches the key in his pocket. They've been ever so good at this over the years, haven't they? Putting their interactions into neat little boxes, only so restricting that it could be used as an excuse, always lax enough to give them some freedom of choice.

Their choice; to spend time together, their reasons eroding over the years until they had been whittled down to the barest of excuses. Dinner, drink, company, companionship.

Aziraphale knows this is where he'd normally stop himself, but he finds it quite liberating that he no longer has to. That he no longer wants to - though it's rarely been a conscious thought, it's always been the imperative to keep them safe, keep _Crowley_ safe.

He inserts the key into the lock and feels the wards undo around the door, allowing him to open it without setting them off. He studies them as he closes the door and turns the key yet again, feeling them reform. This time to keep the both of them safe.

They are not as different from what he knows of heavenly wards. He can see the differences, though there are more similarities than he could have imagined. He rubs his fingers against his trouser legs. He mustn't touch.

Turning his back to the door, Aziraphale makes his way into the flat. He's already seen most of the rooms, when he was here disguised as Crowley himself. However curious he might have been, he'd kept out of some of the rooms. He'd also been busy being worried about Agnes' final prophecy, hoping they'd get it right. It wasn't like they'd have a second chance.

There's nothing to stop him now, and he has legit business in the one room he'd known was there but hadn't seen. Because he knew Crowley slept. It wasn't a concept that had ever really appealed to Aziraphale - apart from perhaps just now, with all the tension of the coming of the antichrist being… well, over and done with.

There is a small thought in the back of his head suggesting that he might join Crowley.

He pushes it down, but it rears back like a rubber ball bouncing off a wall when he opens the door to the bedroom, so very careful to not make enough noise to wake Crowley. It looks so inviting. The bed is not as opulent as Aziraphale had thought it might be. Then again, the rest of the flat is quite minimalistic, stands to reason Crowley's bed would be as well. No clutter, no hint of hell. But it is big.

He wonders if perhaps they are more alike than either of them had thought. He sits on the edge of the bed, carefully, quietly, as he watches Crowley, sprawled on the bed. His upper body is twisted to the side and one arm is tucked under his head while the other is stretched out towards Aziraphale. He's so still in his sleep, face clear of the usual expressions of amusement or worry. He wonders if perhaps Crowley keeps his place uncluttered for the same reason that he keeps his bookshop an almost chaotic nest.

Crowley is also more dressed than he'd expected. Somewhere, in the depths of his own imagination, only to be looked at when he was very sure no one heavenly was watching, he'd always imagined that Crowley would sleep naked.

He is, however, wearing the loveliest, black silk pajamas that Aziraphale has ever seen. And he's sure that if he were to touch, it would feel absolutely divine.

He doesn't know for how long he sits there, just watching Crowley sleep. It's a longer while, perhaps, than he's ready to admit to himself. The angle of the light coming through the windows has changed enough to notice, anyway. 

Aziraphale does consider that perhaps he should be leaving, now that he's checked up on Crowley as he was asked to do, but a minute change in Crowley's, until now, relaxed posture catches his attention. There's a line of tension to the closed eyes.

Before he can think twice, Aziraphale reaches out and touches the frown line between Crowley's eyebrows. There's a small change but it's not enough. And this is where he does something he should possibly not do without asking first. He touches his own lips, breathes a prayer and presses the tips of his fingers against Crowley's brow again.

It's like a drop of water into an otherwise still pond. It starts a ripple that expands into eternity. The frown evens out and there's a small contented upturn to Crowley's lips. Like his dreams have taken a turn for the sweeter.

Aziraphale can't find it in himself to see what he's just done as being wrong. There's a warmth in his chest; it blooms and expands, spreads and fills his heart. It's the embers of the fire that he should perhaps worry might grow to a towering inferno that could scorch anyone who would ever consider harming Crowley, or try to destroy what they have.

He's touching his own lips with the very same fingertips a moment later, barely aware of it. Of the significance. He should go, shouldn't he? Everything seems to be in order, right?

But… what if Crowley once again dreams of something unpleasant? It would surely impede his rest? Before he can stop himself, his shoes are off and he's on the bed, laying on his side, facing Crowley. He's on top of the duvet, no need to worry there. He's simply keeping watch.

Hours later, Aziraphale forces himself to get up. He was just supposed to check on Crowley, not lie there, staring at him while he's sleeping. There are, he ponders as he puts his shoes on again, those who would consider it creepy, but quite frankly, 6000 years of knowing each other has given them different boundaries than your average ordinary human being.

It doesn't necessarily mean that Crowley will thank him for it. His friend can be rather tacky-turn sometimes.

Aziraphale walks through the room where Crowley's plants are. He has an inkling of how Crowley gets them to grow, he can feel the tension in the air, their fear of failure.

It's a feeling he's uncomfortably familiar with, himself.

He takes a deep breath. It _is_ a feeling he had been familiar with. When he still cared what heaven thought of him, what the other angels thought of him.

Now he knows, but he doesn't care anymore. In truth, what's important to him now, what has been important to him for a while longer than he might suspect, is what Crowley thinks of him. And he sighs as he reaches out to trace the edge of a lovely leaf. He's aware he's never made things easy for Crowley, yet the demon has never turned his back on him - at least not for long.

"I've been a bit of a fool, haven't I?" Aziraphale asks the plants. "Whenever we'd get too close, I'd be the one to say no and pull back." He feels the vibrant life of the plants in a way that makes him wonder if they are listening to him, to his confessions.

All things great and small…

"Perhaps I did genuinely do it because I feared what repercussions he might face if we were found out - but for all my comments about stern memos from Gabriel, my side, my _former_ side was no better than hell, was it?" He almost admits more to himself, but he can't. Not yet. Some wounds are yet too fresh.

Air, he needs air. He's done what he promised - he can come back later and check on Crowley again. There is no knowing for how long he'll be sleeping. He'd said so himself; he might sleep all week.

Aziraphale leaves the flat the same way he came, using the key to open the wards and close them behind him. He doesn't go back to the bookshop - he knows if he does so, he'll hide in the back until Crowley calls him - even if it does take a week.

Instead he walks around the neighbourhood. There's a small second hand store on the corner, and he finds an old dog eared paperback of The HIstory of the Kings of Britain. Monmouth hadn't gotten much right, but there are a few familiar truths in there and Aziraphale is feeling maudlin and perhaps a little nostalgic.

He meanders the streets, telling himself that he needs to pace himself. One could get the unseemly idea that he couldn't stand being away from Crowley for too long.

There was a small tea shop and Aziraphale decides that if he is to be coming by Crowley's place more often, there might as well be something for him to drink. Apart from the wine. The wine will be magnificently good, it always is, but he enjoys the tea. The making of it, the process. It is a familiar and calming thing for him to do, even if he could just magic up a cup of perfect tea - it's just that miracalled tea never tastes as good as a proper brewed cup.

Humans are such clever creatures, are they not? They bring about many bad things, but there are so many marvels as well - great as well as small ones.

Like the process of making tea, and enjoying drinking it. He purchases a cup as well, since he's not sure that Crowley has any. And a small travel kettle, because he's fairly sure that Crowley doesn't own one either.

It's been nearly two hours when he returns to the flat. Surely it's enough for him to check in on Crowley again? Not too soon?

Aziraphale tells himself as he goes about making the tea, that of course it isn't. Crowley had been uneasy in his sleep earlier. It won't do any harm making sure he's alright this soon after.

Aziraphale takes his cup of tea as well as the paperback with him into the bedroom, stopping in the door to check that Crowley is indeed still asleep. Which of course he is.

Setting the cup down on the bedside table, Aziraphale takes his jacket off and hangs it over a chair. He hesitates for a moment, then takes the vest off as well as his bow tie. He might as well be comfortable, right?

It's a little chilly in the flat, and Crowley is curled up tight under the quilt. He's facing away from Aziraphale but there's a tension to his shoulders, as if his dreams are not quite as pleasant as one could have hoped.

Aziraphale makes himself comfortable on the bed. Curled up like that, Crowley doesn't take up much space. Aziraphale gestures and a couple more plump pillows appear behind his back to allow him to sit comfortably up against the headboard. A second thought and a blanket covers his legs. Tartan, which clashes horribly with the black quilt. But it makes Aziraphale smile.

And if it's big enough to cover both his own legs as well as most of Crowley's body, then what of it?

Aziraphale reads through the old book. Yes, Geoffrey had perhaps embellished a little much but it was still an enjoyable read. His attention is diverted from the book after a while, as he feels the shift in the sleeping body next to him. He realizes with a start that he's been resting his hand on Crowley's shoulder for who knows how long.

Crowley shifts again and Aziraphale realizes that he's moving closer to Aziraphale with each move. When he can't get any closer because Aziraphale is still on top of the quilt, he makes a small unhappy noise, though he's still very much asleep.

Aziraphale needs another cup of tea, that's it. He slips from the bed, making sure that the tartan blanket covers Crowley so he'll stay nice and cozy. He leans in, putting his hand on Crowley's cheek. Before he can even think twice about it, he leans forward and presses his lips to Crowley's forehead.

To ward off bad dreams.

Crowley stills and the frown on his sleeping face slips away. He mutters something that sounds a lot like 'a pint of bananas' but Aziraphale isn't sure, because he's busy holding a breath he doesn't need, his telltale heart beating in his chest like a drum of war.

Tea. He needs tea. And perhaps he can find something strong to put in it.

It's in the middle of the night, dark outside, and Aziraphale only turns on the light in the kitchen. He gives the tea making his full attention. And there's a bottle of very strong scotch in the cupboard. A liberal amount of it goes into the tea.

He doesn't return to the bed. Instead he finds himself back in the room with the plants. They really are rather good listeners, and if he thought he could keep them alive, he'd consider something similar in his own home. As it is, there's a certain cleansing in confessing his trespasses to these ones - because they are Crowley's.

Aziraphale doesn't know what he's going to say, but his words are confessions, tumbling from the depths of his soul.

"I've overstepped my boundaries by leaps and bounds," he tells the plants, and he knows they are listening, in their own way. They'll keep his secret. "I was to be here to see that he was alright, that was all." He's aware he might be babbling. "I shouldn't have…"

Somehow Aziraphale is out the door and into the night. The streets are never quiet in London, but he sees nothing, hears nothing. He's walking through the streets in his sock clad feet, and in his shirtsleeves.

It's London, and as Crowley would so fondly say: it's reality, so no one pays him any attention.

A snap of the fingers and he's at least wearing shoes. Although his socks are by now ruined. He can fix them, but it doesn't matter.

His mind is running in circles, like the wheels that humans have for their rodent pets. Round and round it goes, his thoughts a mess. He hadn't meant to.

"But I did," he says to himself, and when he looks up again, he's in front of Crowley's building once again. He could, he _should_ probably go home. Stay there.

He's back inside the flat before he can stop himself. He wants to go back into the bedroom, it's like a pain that sits right under his ribcage, where the humans have their hearts, it's a feeling like something molten in the pit of his stomach.

He makes another cup of tea.

He talks to the plants again. It's not quite morning, but there's a certain light to the skies outside. Only just enough to be noticable.

He holds the tea cup with both his hands, taking comfort in the heat that seeps through the ceramic and into his hands.

"I've been a fool, haven't I?" he asks the plants. 

"I trespassed," he confesses to them. "I bring him calm and peace with my presence, yet all I can think of is that I want more. That I want to offer him just this always, whenever he needs it, whenever I feel like _I_ need to give it."

Aziraphale takes a cleansing breath. It's like an infested wound that needs to be bled, isn't it? He shakes his head. No. It's not. It's not the right choice of words, is it? It's an ugly image.

What he is feeling is pure, even if no angel would agree that the object of his affections could ever be considered pure.

"But he is," Aziraphale says quietly, his tea growing cold. Not that he cares. "He is pure in his belief that what we did was the right thing to do. He is pure in his beliefs that mankind deserves more than to be caught between two warring…" What was that Adam had called them? Two gangs fighting to see whose gang was the strongest? Two gangs of bullies.

"I am an idiot," Aziraphale says, a small giggle escaping him. But that's just it, isn't it? He remembers admitting that he's been worried about what might happen to Crowley if they were found out.

"Perhaps I was afraid of what I felt for him, how _much_ I felt for him, how all encompassing my love was, or rather, _is_ for him."

It's like the plants are holding their breath.

Aziraphale puts the cup down next to one of them. He pushes the worries, the could-haves and should-haves from his mind. And then he's back in the bedroom, watching the lump in the middle of the bed; Crowley under quilt and tartan blanket.

He kicks his shoes off next to the pair he'd left when he'd run from the room earlier. The socks are dropped to the floor as well. He pauses for a moment, holding his breath, then letting it out slowly again. The shirt goes onto the chair as well as his trousers. He slips under the quilt this time, aware that he's only wearing his shorts and his undershirt.

Crowley mutters something again, and the only word Aziraphale catches is 'unicorn' and 'crepes'. And grativates slightly towards Aziraphale.

Aziraphale wants to force himself to close his eyes and just… be there for Crowley. "I'm soft," he mutters to himself. He can't get himself to do so, though. He watches Crowley, who looks nothing like a demon. His face is emotionless in sleep. He's relaxed and with the eyes closed, there is little to tell anyone looking that he is indeed a demon.

However, Azraphale can feel him, he's aware of him, in ways that he's always aware of Crowley and Crowley's hellish nature. The original tempter, wily and seductive, impish and infinitely creative in his work. What was that Aziraphale had called him? Nice? No, Crowley's not nice in the old meaning of the word - perhaps except when it also meant 'delightful'. And not even in the modern meaning. He's only ever that kind of nice to Aziraphale, isn't he? He's always very good to him. Cares about him.

Aziraphale feels his face heat. Yes, well, he's never claimed he was good at picking up social cues, has he? And even then, he's always known, deep down. Whenever he's been able to give Crowley the opportunity to do something for him, he has, hasn't he? 

Heat pools in his stomach. That dance has been slightly ridiculous, but he's never been capable of not doing it. He reaches out and puts his hand next to Crowley's on the bed. He's let Crowley do small and great things for him, he's repaid him with a smile and Crowley has been... pleased.

Crowley shifts again, moving sideways the way only a snake can. He's close to Aziraphale now, and Aziraphale holds his breath and moves his hand to take Crowley's, bringing it up to his lips and pressing a soft kiss to it. He holds it there, against his lips as he finally closes his eyes.

Maybe Crowley isn't the only one who needs this?

He doesn't really mean to fall asleep, but he drifts off and at some point, he feels something rubbing against his lips. He doesn't open his eyes at first, still in the arms of sleep. Instead he scrunches up his nose and licks his lips.

The soft sound brings him all the way back and Aziraphale opens his eyes. Crowley is curled up next to him, awake, his fingers pressed to Aziraphale's lips. Which means that Aziraphale just licked…

"That tongue should be classified as a lethal weapon," Crowley says, trying for nonchalance, but falling short. His eyes are wider than they normally are and he hasn't moved his hand away, fingertips still pressed to Aziraphale's mouth.

And Aziraphale cannot for the love of God, explain why he chooses to part his lips and run the tip of his tongue over the pads of Crowley's fingers.

The sound that had caught his attention earlier had been a whimper - this one is mostly a moan. Aziraphale is barely able to raise his arms and put them around Crowley as the demon climbs into his lap and proceeds to kiss him like the world is ending - again.

Aziraphale realizes quite a few significant things within the time span between one heartbeat and the next, or between his lips parting and finding Crowley enthusiastically invading it.

He's pressed kisses to Crowley's forehead, to his hand, but those are a faint echo of how absolutely encompassing kissing Crowley on the mouth is.

As still as Crowley has been in his sleep, as animated he is in Aziraphale's lap, pressing himself against him as if he can't get close enough. It doesn't cross Aziraphale's mind to perhaps add a little extra to his body to make the friction a little more interesting. He's far too busy with kissing, thank you very much. And it doesn't feel like Crowley's making that effort either. He seems just as focused on kissing as Aziraphale is.

When they finally draw apart, just enough to look at each other, Aziraphale feels undone by the sight that meets him. Crowley's normally styled hair is sticking out in all directions because Aziraphale has made a mess of it. His eyes, most times hidden behind the sunglasses are uncharacteristically soft and brilliantly vivid in hues of orange and yellow. His thin lips, normally stretched in a stern line or an infuriating smirk, are now red and a little swollen, glistening, slightly parted.

A temptation Aziraphale can't imagine turning away from. He leans in to continue where they left off, but Crowley stops him with a small laugh.

Is this what it's like to be thwarted? Azirahale wonders, feeling more than a little dazed.

"Let me check my wards," Crowley mumbles, rubbing the pads of his fingers against Aziraphale's lips again. "We've both been asleep for a while and I don't want to have to kill anyone who might interrupt us when I get back." The latter is added with a sinful wink.

And then he's gone, leaving Aziraphale feeling oddly bereft. Clearing his throat, he tries to find his equilibrium again, only to softly laugh when he touches his own lips, marvelling at the feeling of how sensitive they feel, and how much he wants to go back to kissing.

Aziraphale doesn't want to move. Not anytime soon, at least. The only thing that can make this better is if Crowley will just come back to bed.

Checking the wards.

Aziraphale is rather sure that there's more to it than that. He's sure that Crowley is just doing it because he wants to make sure that Aziraphale hasn't made a mess of his flat.

"Angel?" Crowley sing songs as he returns to the bedroom, drops his pajama top and bottom on the floor and slides under the quilt from the bottom of the bed, all but slithering his way up the bed to resurface from under the covers right between Aziraphale's legs.

Aziraphale sucks in his breath as he's manhandled down onto his back so Crowley can make himself comfortable halfway on top of him. "Y-yes?" he manages to get out.

"So comfy," Crowley mutters as he settles, one leg pushed between Aziraphale's thighs, his hand on his hip and his head resting on Aziraphale's chest. "Why is there fancy tea in my cupboard, a travel kettle that clashes with my kitchen decor, a copy of Monmouth's trashy Arthur wank material on my bedside table? And this?" he pulls the tartan blanket up to make his point.

"Eh?" Aziraphale says.

"Are you moving in with me?" Crowley asks, nuzzling against Aziraphale's collarbone. He's smiling, there's no doubt about it. "Because that would be okay. More than okay. It'd be… tickety-boo."

Aziraphale knows that Crowley's laughing at him, and a moment later, Crowley's on the move again, squirming until he's astride Aziraphle's lap. Aziraphale draws in a quick breath. He doesn't have to react to this friction and pressure, but he finds he doesn't want to tell his body 'no'.

Crowley pushes his head to the side, licking a scorching strip from his clavicle to his ear. His breath is hot and humid against the shell of Aziraphale's ear. He nips at his earlobe for a moment. "And why is there a cup of cold tea next to my plants, angel? Have you been talking to them? Have you been giving them ideas, _angel_?" Crowley's breath stutters against Aziraphale's cheek. "Undoing all my-"

Aziraphale grabs his head, burying his fingers in Crowley's hair and shuts him up in a way that is quickly becoming the best way ever. Whoever came up with kissing should be elevated to sainthood. He swallows Crowley's groan, hungry for every little reaction.

When Crowley pushes himself up a little to push two fingers under the elastics of Aziraphale's shorts, Aziraphale takes his chance and pushes him off balance, down on to his back on the bed.

"Angel!" Crowley all but squeaks, though there's an unholy glee to his whole demeanor. He pulls Aziraphale forward, fingers grasping at his sides and trying to touch him everywhere at once. He bites at Aziraphale's shoulder as if to retaliate.

It only makes Azriphale push him into the mattress a little firmer. And because he can tell that Crowley's decided to make the effort to add human genitalia, well, why not. Takes two to tango. He's not used to the feeling, but his body seems to know what to do, making the experience far more interesting.

"Well, I'll be," Crowley gasps. "Angel in the streets, demon in the sheets?" It's obviously meant as a taunt, but it comes out rather breathlessly.

Aziraphale knows that before the apocalypse that never was, he would have fought the comment, but now he just lets it go, it's Crowley after all. He holds him down, revelling in the feel of how Crowly writhes under him and what it does to his newly acquired human parts. "Does that make you my opposite?" he asks playfully.

Crowley whines deliciously as he's held in place. "Wha`?" he manages to ask.

"A demon in the streets, but an angel in the sheets?" Aziraphale hedges, feeling far too gone to care about propriety.

"Ooh, you minx," Crowley breathes, greedily meeting Aziraphale halfway, wrists still pinned to the bed.

Aziraphale wonders for a moment if perhaps his grip is too hard, he doesn't want to leave marks. He voices as much, and is met with a hoarse laugh.

"Liar, you want to leave marks on me - all over me," Crowley gasps, hooking his long legs over Aziraphale's hips, heels digging into Aziraphale's backside, urging him closer. "I want you to leave marks all over me. _No,_ you're not holding me down too hard, you idiot." He twists his head to the side and hisses into Aziraphale's ear. "Don't hold anything back when you're here with me, we're safe, you can't hurt me, but you _can_ make me feel."

Aziraphale doesn't know what to say, but in the end he doesn't need words. He buries his face against Crowley's neck and grinds down where they're pressed together, feeling the hardness and heat of Crowley's erection against his own, through two thin layers of fabric.

Crowley writhes under him, reminding Aziraphale of the snake he was when they first met. A human vessel should not be capable of doing what Crowley is currently doing, like he has no spine.

Aziraphale finds his release takes him by surprise. It's so human and physical, yet transcends any earthly pleasures he's ever partaken in. 

Crowley throws his head back and to the side with a shout and archs up against him. 

It's more temptation than Aziraphale can say no to, fitting his mouth over the tendon where neck and shoulder meet, biting down hard enough to leave a mark. He's shifted his hands around Crowley's wrists to fit their hands together, palms to palms and fingers interlocked.

Crowley's not wrong, afterall - Crowley knows temptation, knows the baser instincts, and above all; he knows _Aziraphale_. 

Staring down at the mark he's made, red and damning, Aziraphale wants to say he's sorry, but he can feel how much Crowley enjoyed it and just to make sure, he leans down and nips at the mark.

"Ah, angel, please, give me a moment or two to catch my breath," Crowley grumbles, voice gravelly and thick with pleasure. He doesn't mean it, obviously. "I didn't expect to be right, you know," he says, tightening the grip on Aziraphale's hands. "I hope you'll let me find out."

"Find out what?" Aziraphale asks, nuzzling just under Crowley's chin, wondering if he can get away with a mark or five more.

"Just how demonic you'll be in bed, angel," Crowley says with equal amounts of mirth and approval.

Aziraphale pushes up onto his elbows, looking down at Crowley's slitted eyes. "I guess it depends on how angelic you can be."

"Challenge accepted," Crowley all but crowes. It's ruined, however, by a yawn that seems to come to him as a surprise. "I wouldn't mind a nap and a cuddle first though," he says, his gaze softening.

Aziraphale takes a small breath of relief. He's enjoying this, he's enjoying himself, but slowing down won't hurt. They have all the time in the world, after all. "Nothing I'd rather do, my dear. Nothing I'd rather do."

The end

**Author's Note:**

> The word 'nice':
> 
> Late 13c., "foolish, ignorant, frivolous, senseless," from Old French nice (12c.) "careless, clumsy; weak; poor, needy; simple, stupid, silly, foolish," from Latin nescius "ignorant, unaware," literally "not-knowing," from ne- "not" (from PIE root *ne- "not") + stem of scire "to know" (see science). "The sense development has been extraordinary, even for an adj." [Weekley] -- from "timid, faint-hearted" (pre-1300); to "fussy, fastidious" (late 14c.); to "dainty, delicate" (c. 1400); to "precise, careful" (1500s, preserved in such terms as a nice distinction and nice and early); to "agreeable, delightful" (1769); to "kind, thoughtful" (1830). 
> 
> Aziraphale might agree that Crowley is delightful, though.


End file.
